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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25603447">Not Obligatory</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MSobel/pseuds/MSobel'>MSobel</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Canon, Alternate Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Janine (Sherlock), Developing Friendships, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Late Night Conversations, Multi, My First AO3 Post, Other, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Likes to Dance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:42:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,848</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25603447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MSobel/pseuds/MSobel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Who leaves a wedding early?<br/>The night air was crisp and chilled, sending a shiver down his spine before he pulled on his coat, walking slowly away into the darkness. Behind him, the flashing purple lights cast a dim glow onto the lawn, the low bass of the music pulsing into the night. It throbbed deep inside him, pushing the ache that had entwined his heart all day up into his throat and prickling behind his eyes. He had been strong for everyone who needed him to be, but as he walked away into the solitude of the night, Sherlock Holmes was dangerously close to crying.<br/>“Thought you could get away so soon, did you, Mr. Holmes?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; Janine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey! I'm msobel00 on Tumblr, I'm super late to the fandom but hey, I'm here now and I'm looking to make friends! I'll be posting fics now and again but in the meantime I'm busy reading everyone else's awesome works and creating fanart. Come say hi!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Sherlock had attended precisely three and one half weddings in his life. The first had been a family friend who requested that six-year-old Sherlock be her ring bearer, insisting that he would love it and would, quote, ‘look simply adorable in the matching groomsmen outfits I’ve got planned.’ Sherlock had put considerable effort and time into explaining exactly why he shouldn’t be tortured so to anyone who would listen and many that didn’t, including a heartless Mummy who simply laughed and insisted that he would make a divine ring bearer. In the end, she had stuffed him into the scratchy and hideous (in his opinion) outfit, oblivious to his vehement protests and the smirking Mycroft lurking over her shoulder, far too pleased to see his little brother in such a humiliating get-up. Sherlock had pouted his way down the aisle, dragging his feet sulkily and noisily across the carpet, but his spirits were suddenly lifted when he realized that the bride was three months pregnant and she was only getting married to avoid the disgrace she would receive from her family. The rest of the service flew by in a whirlwind of intriguing deductions, resulting in an unfortunate slip of the tongue that occurred when his thought process was interrupted by his cue to pass over the rings. The poor bride certainly regretted ever asking Sherlock to be in her wedding party when he proffered the velvet pillow and asked with blinking puppy eyes,<br/>“So who’s the real father then?”<br/>    The next wedding was two years later, exactly one year and one month after the groom slipped away on the last night of their honeymoon and was never heard of again, apparently unwilling to father a child not his own. Needless to say, Sherlock was not invited to be involved in any capacity, but he sat primly next to Mycroft in the audience and they whispered deductions back and forth until Mummy discretely gave them each a pinch that shut them both up effectively.<br/>   The last wedding and a half had both been for a case. He had officiated one, disguised as a hunched old man who delivered the script in a quavery whisper that frustrated everyone attending with the painstakingly slow pace in which the service dragged. Presumably the couple never realized that their marriage is a legal sham, but they seemed happy enough, so he never bothered to tell them. He was disguised at the half-wedding too, this time as the demure bride, heavily veiled and buried underneath an enormous flower bouquet. Naturally it surprised everyone when the priest asked, “Does anyone object?” And the bride coyly pulled back her veil while a storm of police officers descended from all sides. Sherlock still considered it to be one of his more amusing cases.<br/>    Now, he would be attending a fourth wedding. After that dismal social failure at the age of six, he had simply assumed that no one would ever ask him to be a part of such a seemingly important event (although he still considered matrimony to be a complete and utter waste of everyone’s time) and put the matter out of his mind, retrieving details regarding wedding protocol and procedure from his Mind Palace only when it pertained to a case. So naturally it came as a complete surprise (an occurrence so rare in his experience that he was typically in shock for days after) when John had looked at him, after a convoluted exchange that really did nothing to clear up the increasing confusion that was looming between them, and said,<br/>“You.”<br/>   And to further aid in the rapid deterioration of Sherlock’s internal composure, John then went on to deliver the most incredible phrase Sherlock had ever heard, in a matter-of-fact manner completely ironic to the enormity of his words,<br/>“Yeah, ‘course you are. Course you’re my best friend.” And simply looked up at him with an honesty in his eyes that still blew Sherlock away each time he remembered it. Which, in all honesty, was quite often. This mind-blowing revelation had been the source of many late nights and endless excursions into his mind to figure out exactly why John considered him to be his best friend, what he possibly could have done to deserve the privilege, exactly what he should to do maintain this status, and obsessively compiling a list of all the things he should not do in order not to betray John’s trust. Once the wedding planning started however, the tangle of complicated and frankly confusing thoughts eventually crystallized into a concrete, incredibly daunting plan—if John wanted him as best man, he would be the best damn man there had been in the history of best men. He threw himself into wedding planning. Sherlock had always been a man to relish a challenge, but this was on an entire new level of daunting. Typically he had very different motivations for getting things done, the foremost being simply to postpone his inevitable boredom for everyday life. Now, he found himself organizing guest lists and curating options of folded serviettes all in the name of love, theoretically speaking, no case even remotely connected. Marriage was still a dreadful sham and a bore to boot, but if it must be done, there were no two people better matched for each other. Therefore, it must be done well, at any cost (How was he to know that Lestrade had other business at the time?).<br/>    As the weeks went on and the wedding began to take shape, Sherlock had become aware of an unfamiliar...something...certainly not emotion. Although he had been moved by John’s request, he still managed to keep a certain impersonal detachment to the proceedings that followed, as was required to keep a clear and level mindset about the whole business. But something was gnawing at him, and it flared up when he looked out the Baker Street window, watching John and Mary get in a cab together. It flared again when Mary mentioned a mysterious Major James Sholto. He knew everyone John knew, everything that John did and thought, even, but here was this woman coolly disclosing information that John apparently hadn’t seen fit to tell his best friend. It added a secondary source of difficulty to the already strenuous job he had set for himself, and when he was sitting alone in the flat, gazing at the empty red chair in front of him, it manifested in a peculiar ache in his eyes, his chest. Sometimes nicotine patches helped, and other times they only exacerbated the unwelcome presence.<br/>    Of course, there were a few distractions. The Bainbridge case, for one. Sherlock had been ready to drop all of the Work until the wedding was over, although it was extremely difficult at times, but when John asked for a distraction, well, he had to admit he was overjoyed to recreate the old times. Pity that it hadn’t been solved in the end—the lack of resolution almost negated the blessed release of tension brought about by John’s presence once again by his side. One can never have everything.<br/>    Then, the stag night. Sherlock had calculated every moment of the evening to promote optimal enjoyment, but somewhere between the third and fourth pub things got a bit muddled. Sherlock hated being drunk. It compromised his deduction skills, confused his physical cognition, and left him with a headache the next day that delayed any experiments or work he might have had planned. Still, although the memories of the night were blurred and vague, as was to be expected, he came to the realization that he had had fun. The fuzzy remembrance of John’s laughter brought a warmth with it that made the awful hangover completely worthwhile.<br/>It didn’t last, though.<br/>     Sherlock woke early on the morning of the wedding. The painful feeling was in full force as soon as he was conscious, churning in his stomach in a way that made it hard to concentrate on anything else. Mrs. Hudson interrupted his last-minute road test of the waltz he had—mostly—finished composing for the first dance. The tea was nice, but the conversation most certainly was not. Mrs. Hudson, in a sweetly tactless manner, sat across from him and assured him that ‘marriage changes people.’ Sherlock disagreed with her, resolutely trying to convince himself at the same time. Mrs. Hudson then went on to unnecessarily remind him that he wouldn’t know, how could he since he always lives alone? It was at that moment Sherlock realized he couldn’t bear another minute of her company, but of course she remained happily oblivious to his attempts at tactfully removing her. “BISCUITS!” He bellowed finally and she scuttled off, muttering. <em>And people wonder why I’m rude. Nothing else gets the point across.</em><br/>John’s chair sat by the fireplace, devoid. Sherlock looked at it for a long moment, that peculiar feeling threatening to engulf him. Then he turned away resolutely.<br/>“Right then.” He stepped into his bedroom, pulling the suit on its hanger from its hanging place on the bureau.<br/>“Into battle.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>       The wedding happened. Everything went exactly according to calculation—the organ started at precisely 11.48 and the service ended at precisely 12.47. At 12.50, the wedding party burst gaily through the church doors into a painfully bright midday light and posed for a myriad of confetti-splattered photographs. Sherlock had plastered on a light, impersonally congratulatory smile suitable for best men early on in the day and it didn’t falter when he was asked to step out of the couples’ shot, nor for any of the various combinations of people he was shuttled into. How many photos could you possibly need? It wasn’t until he was standing next to Janine, Mary’s bridesmaid, that anything of interest happened. She hooked her arm through his as they posed for the photographer and murmured, smiling,<br/>“The famous Mr. Holmes! I’m very pleased to meet you. But no sex, OK?” She glanced coyly at him as the smile dropped from his face in exchange for an incredulous glance at her. Out of all the conversations he had planned to be having today, this of all things was not one of them.<br/>“Um—sorry?”<br/>Janine laughed. “You don’t have to look so scared, I’m only messing. Bridesmaid, best man, it’s a bit traditional.” She gave him a gentle shove with her arm.<br/>“Is it?”<br/>“...But not obligatory.”<br/>  Well then. “If that’s the sort of thing you’re looking for—“ he looked quickly around and nodded at a man standing a few feet away—“the man over there in blue is your best bet. Recently divorced doctor with a ginger cat...a barn conversion...and a history of erectile dysfunction.” He paused for a second. “Reviewing that information, possibly not your best bet.”<br/>Janine grimaced. “Yeah, maybe not.” Her rich Irish accent was rueful. Then she glanced back up at Sherlock, taking his arm and he looked down at her, puzzled. “Mr. Holmes, you’re going to be incredibly useful.”<br/>The camera flashed in his face.</p>
<p>———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-</p>
<p>     The events of the day proceeded. In the reception line where he, John, and Mary were greeting guests, he stared down Mary’s ex, who looked every bit as frightened as he should. Another surprising moment occurred when Archie, the ringbearer (who, if Sherlock was being honest, did a much better job than he had done all those years ago) threw his arms around Sherlock’s waist and held on for dear life. He was awkwardly aware of John’s incredulous smile as he floundered for any sort of explanation that didn’t involve maggots and beheadings. Archie was the first child to entertain a full conversation with Sherlock and not be a sobbing mess by the end of it, and Sherlock was begrudgingly impressed. <em>Perhaps Archie can become my new assistant</em>, he thought wryly. He seemed to have good taste in murders. Still, the hug was unexpected.<br/>In the reception hall, he encountered Janine once again, still apparently intent on finding someone to take home. As a smartly-dressed waiter passed them by, she gazed after him.<br/>“He’s nice.”<br/>Sherlock took a deep sniff after him.<br/>“Traces of two leading brands of deodorant, both advertised for their strength, suggestive of a chronic body odour problem manifesting under stress.”<br/>Janine didn’t miss a beat in responding. “Okay, done there. What about his friend?”<br/>This was getting rather amusing. Sherlock turned to look at the second waiter preparing the roast beef in the kitchen.<br/>“Long-term relationship, compulsive cheat.”<br/>“Seriously?!”<br/>“Waterproof cover on his smartphone. Yet his complexion doesn’t indicate outdoor work. Suggests he’s in the habit of taking his phone into the shower with him, which means he often receives texts and emails he’d rather went unseen.”<br/>Janine was smiling at him. Admiringly. He had often been the subject of women’s admiration until he spoke to them, effectively ruining the illusion. Yet he had been interacting with her all day and she still looked at him as if she enjoyed his company. It should have been off-putting, but it was nice to have someone to talk to in the midst of all the celebratory chaos.<br/>“Can I keep you?” She asked winsomely. Sherlock found himself breaking into a playful grin. “Do you like solving crimes?” He bantered back.<br/>“Do you have a vacancy?”<br/><em>I will now.</em><br/>   He couldn't help it, his eyes flickered over to John, standing beside Mary while discussing his sister. The tension that had eased while talking to Janine came creeping back as he watched John salute Major Sholto, who was apparently the most unsociable man John had ever met. It only worsened when he called Mycroft out of desperation and was met with condescending reminders ‘not to get involved’ and as a final thrust to the wound, the casual reference to Redbeard. By the time the insufferably long meal was over, Sherlock felt as if he had been in a train wreck. Perfect for speech-giving.<br/>    The telegrams were painful. Sherlock could never have guessed that he would one day stand in front of a crowded room and utter the phrase, ‘big squishy cuddles’, but here he was, and it was a nightmare. The actual speech was only slightly more bearable, though it frightened him mildly that when everyone in the room burst into tears. Again, he usually achieved this reaction in a different way. It became vastly more interesting when, after he had already been speaking for an eternity, the realization of impending murder struck him like a bolt of lightning. In an instant, the reception hall transformed into something familiar, something he knew how to handle...Something he could solve.<br/>   And solve it he did. After a feverish and hectic flurry of deductions headed in part by the Mind Palace Mycroft and cracked by a surprisingly astute observation by Archie (May turn out to be a smart one yet) Sherlock found himself pacing in front of Room 207 wracking his brain to solve the case of the invisible man to save the life of John’s previous commander. In that moment, it struck him. It didn’t matter if this man was more important to John than Sherlock. It didn’t matter if Mary was more important. What mattered was that he needed to save this man and spare John Watson from more pain. When he solved it—not a meat dagger—and Sholto still refused to come out, something nearly broke inside him.<br/>“We wouldn’t do that, would we? You and me—We would never do that to John Watson.”<br/><em>I already have.</em></p>
<p>——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————</p>
<p>    It seemed Janine had given up hope of finding a suitable man to take home. As Sherlock led her in a waltz, secluded in the foyer, he once again felt an easing in his chest that he partly attributed to the therapeutic act of dancing, but also to his dancing partner who, even after the mayhem of the afternoon, seemed completely unfazed.<br/>“Why do we have to rehearse?” She asked as they came to a halt, adjusting the top of her dress. Sherlock leaned towards her.<br/>“Because we are about to dance together in public, and your skills are appalling.” He shot her a quick grin and she laughed. “Well, you’re a good teacher. And you’re a brilliant dancer.”<br/>Sherlock found himself leaning in towards her again. “I’ll let you in on something, Janine.” He whispered conspiratorially.<br/>Her eyes sparkled. “Go on, then.”<br/>“I love dancing. I’ve always loved it.” <em>And never dreamt of telling anyone.</em><br/>“Seriously?”<br/>He had gone this far, may as well show off a bit. “Watch out.” He glanced around—do forbid anyone else was watching—and then twirled around in a full circle before coming to a graceful halt, a rush of familiar exhilaration flushing his cheeks. Janine oohed in appreciation, and a sudden bashfulness washed over him—a completely unfamiliar sentiment.<br/>“Never really comes up in crime work, but...you know, I live in hope of the right case…” He said off-handedly, an attempt to move past the twirl. Janine gazed at him, a wistful expression replacing the former mirth.<br/>“I wish you weren’t…” She began. Sherlock turned to look fully at her as she appraised him. “...Whatever it is you are.” He smiled.<br/>“I know.”<br/>   Maybe he would have said more. Something about this bold and wryly amusing woman was easy to talk to in a way that happened very rarely. But before either could speak, John entered, spotting them and walking over, interrupting further conversation. Then Gavin came in with the cameraman—the murderer—and Sherlock momentarily slipped back into smug-detective mode as he explained the attempted crime. Janine stood in the small audience, looking suitably impressed. John looked relieved. The old flair for the dramatic took over once again and at a vital moment in the reveal, Sherlock swiftly pulled out the handcuffs tucked in his pocket and snapped them in a fluid motion around the photographer’s wrist, clipping the other end to the luggage trolley behind him. He finished with a dramatic flourish of the camera as he presented it to Lestrade. “Everything you need is on that. You probably ought to arrest him or something.”<br/>Janine, stepping smoothly beside him, leaned in. “Do you always carry handcuffs?” She asked quietly. Sherlock simply grinned. “Down, girl.”<br/>—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-<br/>     The violin felt like a familiar friend in Sherlock’s hands after the extraordinarily exhausting events of the day. The waltz he had finished composing just that morning drifted through the room as John and Mary danced, their rhythmic shuffling the only other sound breaking the awed silence. Sherlock turned partway through to watch them, smiling into each other’s eyes. He turned back towards the sheet music. John laughingly dipped Mary, pressing a joyful kiss to her lips as the music ended and the crowd burst into joyful applause. Sherlock, as he untucked the violin from under his chin, was startled to see Janine looking directly at him and cheering loudly, cupping her hands together and letting out a hearty whoop in his direction. He looked at her for a second, then turned to his music stand where he had placed his boutonniere before playing. He turned back and showed it to her before tossing it across the room. She caught it and turned away, smiling brightly. He felt an answering smile cross his face briefly as he stepped towards the microphone.<br/>“Ladies and Gentlemen, just one thing before the evening begins properly. Apologies for earlier. A crisis arose and was dealt with.” He caught John’s eye, smiling at him. Thank you. “More importantly, however, today we saw two people make votes. I’ve never made a vow in my life and after tonight I never will again. So here, in front of you all, my first and last vow.” Sherlock paused. He had thought long and hard about the enormity of his next words. They were words that he never thought he would care enough to say, but now, in this moment, there was nothing more important to be said.<br/>“Mary and John—whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always, for all three of you.” Not good. “...I’m sorry, I mean, I mean two of you. All two of you. Both of you, in fact. I’ve just miscounted.” He took a sharp breath. The happy couple looked slightly less happy.<br/>“Anyway, it’s time for dancing!” Sherlock announced, a desperate attempt to diffuse the situation. “Dancing, please! Don’t be shy!” He stepped off the stage and headed towards John and Mary. Time to do some explaining.<br/>    The signs of three. The two of them both looked ready to faint or cry or something while he explained it to them, but after the initial shock Sherlock managed to convince them not to panic. John burst into a nervous laughter and reached out to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck, gripping him affectionately for a moment, and for a long moment, Sherlock felt nothing but a pure and painful joy. Then John turned back to Mary and a silence fell over them. The abrupt realization that he was the odd one out cast a sudden pall, and for a moment Sherlock floundered.<br/>“Dance.” He said abruptly. “Both of you, now, go dance. We can’t just stand here. People will wonder what we’re talking about.”<br/>Mary reached towards Sherlock, brushing his arm. “And what about you?” She asked gently. John chortled. “Well, we can’t all three dance, there are limits!”<br/>   And so they danced off into the crowd, John’s endearingly nervous giggle fading into the music. Sherlock kept the congratulatory smile until they were swallowed by the throng. As soon as they were out of sight it vanished, along with the momentary happiness he had felt while they were talking. He stood alone, head and shoulders above the crowd. Slowly he turned, uncertain, lowering his gaze to avoid meeting the myriad of glittering eyes.<br/><em>I love to dance. I’ve always loved it.</em><br/>Molly was in the corner with her boyfriend—fiancé?—bobbing about awkwardly and gazing into his eyes. Pity he wasn’t a psychopath. Sherlock moved slowly through the throng. The music was too loud, it was hurting his brain.<br/>Janine.<br/>   He turned and lifted his head to look for her, finding her quickly where she was dancing, his boutonniere pinned to her neckline. She noticed his gaze and waved at him, and he dared a responding grin, moving to join her. He only made it a few steps when the crowd shifted to reveal one of the wedding guests, a geeky and pale little man, dancing up against her. Sherlock turned abruptly away. He had his answer.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Who leaves a wedding early?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>  The night air was crisp and chilled, sending a shiver down his spine before he pulled on his coat, walking slowly away into the darkness. Behind him, the flashing purple lights cast a dim glow onto the lawn, the low bass of the music pulsing into the night. It throbbed deep inside him, pushing the ache that had entwined his heart all day up into his throat and prickling behind his eyes. He had been strong for everyone who needed him to be, but as he walked away into the solitude of the night, Sherlock Holmes was dangerously close to crying. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Thought you could get away so soon, did you, Mr. Holmes?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The lilting brogue drifted through the muted music and whispers of the wind, catching Sherlock off-guard. He stopped walking and stood still, brushing a hand across his face roughly before calling back, </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>  “I assume you’ve lost interest in your last conquest, then, Janine. My condolences.” He could hear her approaching him, feet crunching in the gravel, but he resolutely held his gaze foreword.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Oh, I was never going to go through with </span>
  <em>
    <span>that.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Too needy, just like you said.” Janine came nearer, and by the time she reached his side Sherlock had rearranged his face into an impassive expression and looked down at her coolly.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Too bad.” He answered. “I assure you every man in attendance tonight would have been privileged to have you. Excluding John, of course.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>  Janine chuckled. “And not excluding yourself, then? That’s a surprise.” Her eyes sparkled with a hint of flirtation and Sherlock drew a blank for any sort of comeback. Before he could come up with anything, however, Janine continued. “What interests me more though, is why the best man would leave before the party’s over. Care to tell a girl?” Her flirtation dropped away to reveal the more serious question in her eyes. As if she genuinely wanted to know. Two minutes ago Sherlock had been relieved to be away from all the people, craving desperately to be able to drop the act and finally </span>
  <em>
    <span>relax</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but now, while he was still slightly annoyed at being interrupted in his dramatic getaway, a small part of him was threatening to spill all the pent-up turmoil under Janine’s frank and open gaze. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Retain control. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “I did my duty,” He said tightly, not quite meeting her eyes. “I’m sure John and Mary will do just fine without me.” The double meaning crept through his words despite his best effort and he closed his eyes briefly, bracing himself for the sympathy that was sure to come. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m sure that’s where you’re wrong, Sherlock.” Janine’s voice was confident, upbeat. “I think you’ve got a bad thing for underestimating people.” She punched him lightly in the arm and he glanced at her, mildly shocked. No pity party, then. “Now where were you headed off to just now? Got big plans for the rest of the night?” Sherlock laughed shortly. “Oh, what I’d give to be wandering the streets of London til dawn, does wonders to calm the mind.” He said wryly. “Unfortunately my </span>
  <em>
    <span>best friend </span>
  </em>
  <span>insisted on being wed two and a half hours away from home so I suppose I’ll have to make do with the vastly more boring streets of Bristol.” A silence fell over the two. Again Sherlock saw John’s old chair back at Baker Street, a soft moss beginning to creep over it as it sat empty in his Mind Palace. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Home. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He took a shuddering breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Baker Street isn’t home so much, anymore,” He added softly. He turned his face away from Janine, a threadbare effort to protect his last shreds of dignity. “It’s just...a </span>
  <em>
    <span>flat</span>
  </em>
  <span>...now.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>   Sherlock stood still, hands tucked deeply into his pockets, gazing back at the disco-like windows of the orangerie. It was funny how suddenly easy it was to say it, after all this time. And once the words were out, hanging physically in the air before him, he finally, finally admitted to himself that he was sad. Frightened. And lonely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>  He felt a gentle hand slip around his arm. Janine tucked herself up close to him, following his gaze towards the revelry he had excluded himself from. For once she didn’t have a quick answer to toss back at him, and they stood in an oddly companionable silence for a few seconds. Sherlock took the moment to recompose himself. An odd thought suddenly flashed into his mind then, startling him with the abrupt realization. Surely it was a crazy thing to ask, but the words slipped out anyway, suddenly and awkwardly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “I don’t suppose...you wouldn’t want to—come with me. Walking, I mean. Unless you were going back in. It’s alright if you do. Janine—“ She cut him off with her low chuckle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Aw, I thought you’d never ask,” She replied, giving his arm a squeeze. “Looks like I’ll be spendin’ the night with the best man after all.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> The quip prompted Sherlock to grin despite himself. “It’s tradition,” He answered. Together they turned away and he unbuttoned his coat, draping it around Janine’s shoulders to protect her bare shoulders from the cool breeze. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>     The grounds that John and Mary had chosen for their wedding was an extensive estate that even Sherlock was begrudgingly forced to admit was beautiful. Acres of well-kept gardens hemmed in by stone walls and hedges stretched before the pair as they walked down the gravel path, the polleny scent of various flowers wafting through the chilled spring air. Sherlock found himself momentarily distracted as the scientific names of the different plants began cataloging themselves in his mind’s eye, and he didn’t hear Janine speaking at first.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>  “It’s a gorgeous place, isn’t it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>   Sherlock blinked away from the Latin names fluttering through his brain, nodded in agreement. “Indeed. Although I’m afraid at least eleven of the guests will be suffering from the effects of the wildflower spores in the air. Shame.” They turned a corner and the lights from the festivities behind them were thankfully obscured, leaving only the dim light of the moon and whispering of branches and insects. Something tightly wound in Sherlock’s chest suddenly eased, although there was still a dull ache lurking somewhere deeper that even his present company and the peacefulness of the night could not soothe. He had been dangerously close to unraveling when he walked out of the party, and even now, he was unnerved by the realization that the warm grip of Janine’s hand around his arm was the only thing holding him together. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>  The moon drifted out from behind a scud of clouds, casting a silvery filter across the grounds. They had wandered to a completely different area of the gardens and Sherlock suddenly realized that he had probably been silent for far too long. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Should probably say something. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>  “Grotto.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Over there. See that tower?” Sherlock gestured towards the stone structure silhouetted in the distance. “Constructed in 1763. Housed a steam engine designed to draw water from the canal up into the grotto underneath, built as the centrepiece of the gardens by Thomas Goldney III. It is the only Grotto in Britain with both a shell room and running water. Lined with over 200 species of shell brought back from such locations as the Caribbean and African waters—“ He pulled himself to a halt. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bit not good. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Sorry,” He added wryly. “Read that on Wikipedia, I think. I won’t quote the whole article.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>  Janine chuckled. Not bored, then. “Sounds lovely.” She glanced at him mischievously. “Think we can get in this time of night?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sherlock answered automatically. “I’m afraid the grounds are only open by private tour.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>However—</span>
  </em>
  <span>“However you happen to be in the company of a master lock-pick. The question is…” He lowered down to her ear and whispered. “Are you scared of getting caught?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her dark eyes flashed. “Not at all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Oh, he liked this woman. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’m not sure where John and Mary’s wedding was supposed to be held in the show, but I chose to use the actual filming location, Goldney Hall in Bristol. You can read the Wiki article that Sherlock quotes here https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goldney_Hall <br/>It’s a lovely estate and it’s so much fun to visualize the story unfolding in this real life location!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A bit short, but long overdue. Here ya go!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock Holmes was not a man prone to distraction in any shape or form. Typically he tuned out anything and everything that was not strictly necessary to the current agenda, and in doing such, had earned a reputation for cold-hearted focus—or, as he self-proclaimed, the title of high functioning sociopath. It was little known to those who knew him that even high-functioning sociopaths DID have a deep appreciation for things of beauty—art, natural phenomena, a strain of melody. He didn’t often voice it, but in the rare moment when he let down the machine-like facade to remark on something that struck him as aesthetically pleasing, he was usually met with surprise, or something akin to disbelief. </p>
<p>
  <em> Beautiful, isn’t it? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I thought you didn’t care about things like that. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate them. </em>
</p>
<p>  As he pushed open the heavy wooden door that marked the entrance to the grotto, Janine in tow, he found himself once again struck with the sense of awe and intrigue that was so counterintuitive to his professional image. He had to duck his head a good foot to get through the entrance, and he held the door open for Janine, casting his gaze around the small, cave-like room. It was deeply chilled and muted in the way that underground spaces tend to be, a tangible reminder that one is standing beneath the surface of the earth. A few silvery patches of light from the few small windows cast deep shadows in the corners of the grotto, catching glints of light off the myriad of seashells and quartz stones that lined every inch of the place. Beside him, Janine let out a small murmur of interest as they took in the sight. After a moment or so of silence, broken only by the delicate trickle of water tumbling over a stone-lined fountain on one side of the room, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile, flicking on the lamp and casting the beam across the room. Thousands of sparkling points scattered before the light, and Janine gasped in surprise. Sherlock smiled.</p>
<p>  “Bristol Diamonds,” He said, lines from the Wiki page flicking across his mental map for an instant. “Local quartz geodes formed over 250 million years ago. Quite lovely, aren’t they?” </p>
<p>“Indeed they are,” Janine murmured her assent. She stepped away from him to the near wall and reached out to run her fingers over the ridged shells and crystals. “A regular faerie-cave, this.” Sherlock scoffed, opened his mouth to retort a smart reply before realizing that she was probably joking. Still, it was just a little too ridiculous to let it go.</p>
<p> “Faeries, indeed.” He answered, scornful but allowing a glimmer of humour through just in case he was misreading. “Why don’t you make a wish then. See what happens.” </p>
<p> Janine glanced back at him, and he dropped the light in his hand to avoid her eyes. “Maybe I will, Mr. Holmes.” </p>
<p>  They spent the next half hour making their way through the three chambers of the cave, exploring the intricate details and fixtures like a museum, the companionable silence occasionally broken by one or the other, a helpful Wiki fact here and there. It was indeed a masterpiece of unique architecture, complete with columns and low archways, every surface encrusted with a plethora of shells, fossils, and crystal. Sherlock found himself drawn to the fossils in particular, each petrified piece of history a wealth of information to be explored. He would never admit to it later but he furtively prized off a particularly loose artifact and slipped it into his pocket for later experimentation. Some people, he knew, would be appalled at the desecration of historical grounds but Janine either didn’t notice the petty crime or she simply didn’t care. Eventually, they exhausted the points of interest in the small grotto and made their way back to the front room. Sherlock faced a moment of unease as he realized that it was only getting later into the night and that at some point he would need to escort Janine back to her hotel—if he had been alone he undoubtedly would have wandered around til dawn, but he had a nagging feeling that it would be rude to drag her along for that. Admittedly, the company had been nice, and if she <em> didn’t </em>mind…but no. Rude. Sherlock reached for the door to push it outwards and let themselves kindly out from where they never should have been, and noticed something. </p>
<p>
  <em> Oh, damn. </em>
</p>
<p>He knew before he even tried to turn the heavy knob anyway, just in case he was miraculously wrong. But he was never wrong, and indeed the handle gave barely an inch before locking into place with a gentle <em> click. </em><span>Sherlock sighed. “Janine.” He said calmly, not quite daring to look back at her reaction. “I’m afraid we’ve locked ourselves in.” </span></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Bollocks.” Janine’s voice was unfazed, just slightly annoyed, and Sherlock blinked in mild surprise to hear such an uncouth word coming from a bridesmaid. “What’d you mean, <em> we </em>locked ourselves in? I recall you picked the lock in the first place, Mr. Holmes. I hope this isn’t part of some grand plan to woo me after all.”</p><p>“What—no! Of course it’s not! I’m not—” Sherlock turned to face her, words tumbling out in a flustered, confused defense at the accusation. Janine stood behind him, arms crossed over her chest, and a smug look on her face, chuckling a little at his alarmed reaction. Belatedly, Sherlock shut his mouth as he groped for his wounded dignity, flushing in embarrassment. Thankfully, before he could think of any diffuser for the uncomfortable situation, Janine shrugged. </p><p>  “D’you think someone came after and locked it on purpose?” She asked. Sherlock hesitated for an instant, debating whether to blame the unfortunate occurrence on some imaginary prankster, criminal, or groundskeeper rather than take the blame himself. But he had a sinking intuition that Janine could and would tell if he was lying. “No, of course not.” He answered, finally. “It must have swung shut while we were in the other room so we didn’t hear it. I...I didn’t realize it had a self-locking mechanism.” He dragged out that admission reluctantly. What was wrong with him, that he didn’t notice such an obvious thing? It was frankly disconcerting. He turned back to the door and began examining it, not in any hope of a solution but rather an obtuse attempt to avoid meeting Janine’s eye. </p><p>   “I do hope you’re not going to go into hysterics or something,” He muttered vaguely. He heard a snort behind him. </p><p>  “Sherlock Holmes, we’re not in the 18th century and I’m not a damsel in distress.” Her voice, indeed, was anything but distressed. “Now if you can’t get us out, what’s the next grand plan? Unless you want to sit in here all night.”</p><p>  No, at the moment he really, really didn’t. But there also wasn’t a single option that seemed remotely feasible. Sherlock heaved a sigh. </p><p>  “I don’t know the number to the groundskeeper, and even if I did I happened to notice there’s no cell service in here,” He said, reluctantly leaving off the faux examination to look at Janine. “Obviously I can’t break the door down, it’s far too heavy. The windows are too small even for you to fit through. I’m afraid we’ll just have to stick it out til the groundskeeper comes in the morning to open.” A pause. “And, um...sorry.” He added, ducking his head a little. Janine didn’t appear to be all that upset, but Sherlock oddly enough was beginning to feel distinctly jittery and unsettled. It was one thing to wander the open streets to clear the mind, but quite another to spend hours upon hours trapped beneath the ground in a cave smaller than his flat. He had gone through an entire pack of cigarettes already throughout the day, but he was desperately craving another one and found himself digging through his pockets, even though he knew there were none left to be found. His frantic search was halted a few seconds later when Janine stepped forward and caught his arm, holding something towards him. It took a moment to gather his scattered thoughts and realize she was offering him a cigarette and speaking at the same time.</p><p>  “I always keep a few tucked away for times like this,” She said, pulling out another from her handbag and pausing to light up from Sherlock’s lighter when he offered it to her gratefully. “You know, when you find yourself locked inside ancient crypts with strange men. Happens more often than you’d think,” She added, with a definite wink in his direction. Dragging in a nicotine-laden breath, Sherlock felt his nerves settling slightly and was able to offer her a small grin in return. “Indeed. How resourceful of you.” He took another drag. “You surprise me, Janine.” </p><p>  “Really? How?” </p><p> Sherlock thought for a second. </p><p>“Most women I encounter in my work end up in tears. Or slapping me. Or both.” He said eventually, with a wry smile. “Not many would jump at the chance to go traipsing about with me in the middle of the night. And yet here you are offering me a smoke even though I’ve just locked you inside a crypt for the foreseeable future. In short—“ He cut himself off, a sudden bashfulness overtaking him briefly as he felt Janine’s eyes on him in the silvery shadows of the night. “In short, I do not find you intolerable.” He finished lamely, dropping the cigarette stub and grinding his heel down. </p><p>  “Oooh, I’m flattered,” Janine responded, laughter dancing on the edges of her voice. Sherlock couldn’t quite tell if she was laughing at him, or being sarcastic, or just simply being cheerful. She stubbed out her cigarette as well. “You do know the way to a girl’s heart, Mr. Holmes. Sweeter words I’ve never heard.”</p><p>  Definitely teasing. Sherlock felt that he should be annoyed by her persistent flirtation, but oddly enough, it didn’t bother him. Not that he was interested, of course. She knew it, he had made it clear early on in the day and since then it seemed that there was an unspoken understanding. Still, he found himself bantering with her in a way that went against his typical demeanor, and yet it was coming undeniably easy to him. He let out a heavy sigh without meaning to—this entire day was surreal, and it was affecting him in very strange and unfamiliar ways.</p><p> Janine was still speaking, her voice lowering to a slightly more serious tone. He shook his head briefly to focus on her words. </p><p>“I think you’re very fascinatin’, Sherlock. In a good way. And if other people don’t see that, well, they’re missing out on something beautiful.” </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had been exactly two hours and forty-two minutes since they had spoken. Janine’s absurdly poetic statement had flustered Sherlock, caught him by surprise. Normally he would have scoffed away any sort of compliment or sentiment, but the events of the day had taken a toll on his emotions-whether he wanted to admit it or not-and for once he found himself at a loss for a smart comeback. He saw nothing beautiful in himself, and nearly said as much, but it was not a subject matter he wanted to pursue. Instead he said nothing, and they remained in silence for two hours and forty-two minutes.</p><p>      Sherlock’s eyes were closed now, though he wasn’t asleep. His back was aching and stiff where it leaned ramrod straight on the wooden door they were leaned against, and his right shoulder had gone completely dead where Janine’s dark head rested heavily against it. He was fairly sure she <em> had </em>actually fallen asleep, and so for the past hour he hadn’t moved a muscle to avoid jostling her. She was still wrapped in his suit jacket to cover her bare shoulders, and Sherlock could feel the cold seeping through his thin shirt and up through his trousers where they met the chilled stone. It wasn’t cold enough to be a threat by any means, but it was uncomfortable. It was nearly three in the morning by now, leaving at least another four hours before the grounds were opened and they could presumably leave. In the meantime, he was getting dangerously bored. If he was on a case, and John was with him, it would be different, but—a vivid realization of John and Mary’s wedding night activities flashed abruptly through his mind, sending a visceral shudder through his frame. Janine shifted beside him, lifting her head from his shoulder. Sherlock started a bit, tossing away the unbidden and frankly embarrassing image. </p><p> “It’s not morning yet, if you were going to ask.” He told her, his voice slightly rough from the late hour. Janine groaned dramatically. Sherlock got to his feet, somewhat creakily, and held his hand towards her to help her stand as well. “Walking around a little will increase blood flow and will lessen the effects of the cold.”   </p><p>  Janine chuckled a little, stretching her arms out with a yawn. “Have you gotten tired of this yet?” She asked wryly. “I don’t know about you but I could go on for ages. <em> So </em>much fun, this.” </p><p> Sherlock shrugged halfheartedly; somehow he wasn’t in the mood for witty conversation this late into the night. He paced back and forth in the small room, limbering his stiff limbs and quelling the claustrophobia that crept in as he became acutely conscious of the confinement. This was <em> exactly </em>why he preferred walking about the winding London streets when he needed to clear his mind—the plethora of external stimuli was usually enough to distract him from the turbulence within. Here, trapped on every side on a night when he desperately craved distraction, the walls seemed to close in and suffocate, and the turmoil inside his mind threatened to spill over. He wasn’t aware that he was speaking until his voice broke through the cacophony into the muted room, abrupt and desperate. </p><p> “<em> It won’t stop!” </em> He stilled suddenly, startled by his own voice, and lifted his head to meet Janine’s eyes. He couldn’t make out her features very well in the dark, and for a moment he was sure he had frightened her. <em> What else should I have expected? </em>As he hesitated, reaching for some apology for his outburst, she extended her hand to him. “Will you dance with me?” She asked simply. Sherlock stared at her for a moment. Out of any of the plausible reactions he had expected from her, this had not been one of them, and the unexpected change in trajectory left him fumbling.</p><p>“Sorry?” </p><p>“Dance. I know you like to and you said we need to move around a bit, may as well, yeah?” She stepped forward and took his twitching hand, stilling it between her fingers. “Trust me.” She stood in front of him for a long moment, waiting. Slowly, Sherlock lifted his other hand to rest on her waist underneath his jacket, and the warmth underneath his palm silenced a few of the voices. He began to lead her and she fell into step, a bit clumsily at first but she quickly found his unspoken rhythm and they moved together in the dark. The spare notes of a violin began piecing themselves into a waltz, gradually replacing the shuffling of their feet and the rustle of Janine’s dress in the otherwise quiet room. It crept into every turbulent corner of Sherlock’s mind palace; he began to finger the intricate and familiar notes against Janine’s waist as they danced and the movement and music flowed through him, overtaking the darkness and crystallizing his senses into the warmth and the rhythm. </p><p>  He played through the entire piece—maybe more than once. As the final notes faded into the night he was for a moment suspended in a blissful sense of nothingness, his constant hurricane of thoughts stalled. He stood completely still, eyes closed, letting himself drift for a moment before his physical senses came back with a rush. He inhaled sharply, opening his eyes and seeing Janine there—had she been there the whole time? Both of his arms were tightly around her, hands splayed into her back, and hers rested gently around him as she looked up into his face, patient and unassuming. Sherlock despised hugs. He did. But the soft warmth of her body against him was overwhelmingly comforting and safe and he did not let go. He stood there and for once Sherlock took refuge in another human being.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>   The skin on Sherlock’s nose felt slightly chapped, the same with the creases between his fingers, protesting when he curled them into the coarse fabric of his own jacket that hung awkwardly around Janine’s buxom frame. The room was chilly, but Sherlock barely noticed it, instead cataloguing every point of contact between the two of them that banished the cold and replaced it with a tingling warmth. <em> Chest to chest. Warm, soft. Stomach to stomach—well, not quite. Warm. Arms around back, bands of heat. </em>Holding him in place as though he might drift. Perhaps he had been—drifting—for a long time now. But for now Sherlock stood still and allowed himself to be safely anchored, eyes closed, chin lifted awkwardly above Janine’s head and the scent of her shampoo delicately wafting into his nostrils. It smelled nice—not too strong. A strand of her hair tickled his cheek and he shook his head to brush it off. Then, somehow, his face was buried into the top of her head, pressing his cheek into her dark and soft hair. He felt her murmur into his chest and she stroked a hand up and back down his back, soothing and gentle. It was odd, the way she had silenced the turmoil in his head and replaced it with a sad sense of peace. He knew it wouldn’t last, inevitably, because that’s who he was, but maybe, just maybe, he could tuck this feeling into his Mind Palace and bring it out to calm him the next time the clamoring got too loud. </p><p>  They had been standing there a long time. Sherlock didn’t want to let go but his legs and arms were tingling the way they sometimes did when he didn’t move for too long and it reminded him that perhaps Janine was getting uncomfortable too. He reluctantly pulled back just a little to peer down at her face, searching for signs of impatience or disgust. He found none. </p><p> “This is nice,” she said. Her voice was hushed but there was still that smiling hint to it. “And totally unexpected.”</p><p>  <em> Indeed. </em>“I can be totally unexpected. In fact you should expect that of me at all times, Janine.” It was an attempt at a joke but it was in fact true. A poor attempt at masking the undone-ness that had overcome him in the past few minutes. She saw through it, and he knew it without a doubt. </p><p> “I don’t expect anything of anyone, Sherlock.” Janine pulled her arm from his back and reached up to run her fingers through his hair, and <em> it was nice. </em>His scalp tingled in response. “It saves you a lot of pain in the end, doesn’t it?” </p><p> Sherlock frowned a bit, contemplating. He had a feeling that this was a flawed sentiment and John would disagree, but then again, he had expected John to be there for him, always, and look where he was now. </p><p> “Yes, I suppose so.” He agreed after a moment. She was still in control of him, the feathery touch in his hair driving further thoughts of John away, for now. Hesitantly, he lifted his own hand to the side of Janine’s face, brushed his fingers against her temple and into the thick wave of her hair. <em> Even nicer. </em> He heard her inhale gently at his touch and saw her eyes flicker, shining in the dim light. <em> Why?  </em>He watched her intently, puzzling out her reaction. </p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Of course.  </em>
</p><p>Of course she wanted to kiss him. It had been obvious all day through her coy remarks and flirtatious glances. But as she had just told him, she didn’t expect anything, and he had been happy to ignore her attraction in favor of having a companion for the day. </p><p> He should kiss her. </p><p>Sherlock had kissed before, certainly. It hadn’t been nice, and there had been no urge or desire there whatsoever. It was just a thing that was done, that was required occasionally to weasel into someone’s good graces. So, he did it when the situation called, and he refused to entertain the idea of actually kissing someone for pleasure. It was a silly, ridiculous human behaviour. </p><p>But perhaps he owed it to her.</p><p>Perhaps, he wouldn’t mind so terribly after all.</p><p>“You don’t have to.” </p><p>The words broke him out of his train of thought and startled him. “Don’t have to what?” He asked rather bluntly. His hand was still tangled in her hair. Janine shrugged. “You don’t have to kiss me if you don’t want to.” She said. Her words were matter-of-fact but there was a current underneath that betrayed her. “I know you’re thinkin’ about it but honestly you don’t have to.” </p><p>Sherlock was thrown. “Oh.” He muttered lamely. “I—“   This was getting to be too awkward. He tried again. “I think, perhaps um, I want to, actually.” </p><p>  Something at once dubiously suspicious yet hopeful flickered across her face. He had surprised her. But then again, he had somewhat surprised himself. As soon as the words were out he knew them to be true, but apparently Janine wasn’t as convinced.  </p><p> Sherlock lifted both hands to her face, cupping her jaw and cheek in one hand and tilting her head back with the other entwined in her hair. </p><p>“Janine.” He said huskily. She lifted her eyes to his, lips parted and breathing shallowly. “May I kiss you?”</p><p> Her eyes flickered shut. One breathless chuckle ghosted her lips and then she nodded. “Kiss away, Mr. Holmes.”</p><p>And so he did. Her lips were soft and warm and full, not sticky with lip gloss, but instead pleasantly bare. He bent his head down to pull her closer and moved an arm to her waist, lifting her willingly to her toes and steadying her against him with a hand splayed across the small of her back. </p><p> He didn’t need to breathe, he didn’t need to think, he didn’t need to deduce every moment and catch of breath, he just <em>was. </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Every morning at precisely seven am, the groundskeeper of the gardens made his way methodically across the grounds, checking water pumps, unlocking gates, noting any areas that needed weeding or pruning. He had done so every weekday for the past twelve years, and though it took him a few minutes longer now, fingers fumbling for the right key at times, he had every intention of doing it for another twelve years yet. It was a comforting routine, broken only occasionally by a cluster of rowdy teenagers who had snuck in overnight for kicks or the aftermath of a violent windstorm, but overall it was mundane and relaxing. So, at seven am the morning after John’s wedding, he traversed his usual route in the crisp dawn air, suspecting nothing out of the ordinary. Needless to say it came as a mild shock to the old man when he swung the creaky door of the grotto open to cast a beam of sunlight across a man and a woman, tangled up together in crumpled evening wear, fast asleep on the stone floor. It was altogether an incriminating picture but before he recovered enough from his surprise to jostle them awake and give them a proper scolding, the man started from his sleep with a little jump and ran his fingers through his hair, turning his head to look sleepily at the groundskeeper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> “Ah. Good morning, sorry to bother you.” He said cheerily in a voice rough with the morning. “I’ll just wake up my...companion and we’ll be off.”  The woman stirred and lifted her head from where it had been resting on the man’s stomach and as the groundskeeper watched, in utter silence, they untangled themselves, clambered stiffly and clumsily off the floor and fumbled past him and out the door, all mumbled apologies and not-quite muffled giggles. He probably should have stopped them, reported them or at least asked them what the hell they were doing in there, but he didn’t. Perhaps it reminded him of days past when he had someone to adventure with, days when he was younger and reckless and trespassing on private property was a harmless lark, days long gone for him. So he just stood there and watched them make their way down the path, rumpled and unrepentant, and spared a smile for whatever their story was. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>   “Janine, I have to tell you something.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They were still close to each other, breathing each other’s warmth, foreheads pressed together, dark hair tangling. For Sherlock, it made it easier, not being able to see her eyes when he let her down. Since when had he become afraid of letting people down? It was a weakness, but it was there nonetheless, and he couldn’t bring himself to not care anymore. Janine shifted against him and—damn it—she pulled away and met his gaze squarely. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span> “You don’t have to tell me anything, Sherlock.” She responded, clearly and calm. “I told you, I don’t expect anythin’ that you don’t want to give.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He peered at her in the darkness, just a little lost and trying to ascertain if she was really saying what he thought she was. She seemed to notice and so she went on, her warm fingers still curled gently around the back of his neck. “I know what kind of man you are, and it’s alright, really. Tonight was fun, wasn’t it?” She paused, waiting until he nodded sheepishly. It had been fun. What had been a horrible, stressful day was slightly redeemed by late-night adventures with someone who genuinely seemed to enjoy his company. For a moment he had been dreading the inevitable fallout of his rejection and the prospect of spending the remaining hours with a spurned and angry woman, but Janine didn’t seem angry. She seemed...to understand. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I don’t do...relationships.” He admitted finally. It seemed that he could admit it without hurting her, or at least he hoped. Janine gave a small chuckle, shook her head. “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, Sherlock,” She chided, softly. “You’re not as hard to read as you think you are. You love and you care just as much, if not more, than any of us. It hurts sometimes, doesn’t it?” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, swallowing down the wave of sadness that accompanied the truth in her words. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span> “Yes.” He whispered. “I don’t know how you people live with this...complication.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>There was a long silence. Janine pulled slightly on the back of his neck until he lowered his head down, further down against her shoulder, burying his face against her neck. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“It hurts because we’re human. All of us.” She whispered back. “And you can deny it all you want but it’s not a bad thing.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>They stood there for a while, just two humans being human. And since they were human, joints began to stiffen and ache and eventually they moved apart, stretching limbs and stifling a yawn or two. Sherlock lowered himself to the floor, stretching out like a cat on the hard stone. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span> “We’ve got a few hours yet. May as well get comfortable. Come on,” and he pulled her down towards him as she giggled, and put his arm around her, the weight of her head pressing his shoulder blade into the floor. It was not comfortable in the least, but Sherlock tuned it out and instead closed his eyes and enjoyed the soft and comforting warmth of her body against his. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span> “You know,” he said eventually. “If you ever want to come along on a case I’d be happy to bring you along. It’s rather fun.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>He laid there and felt her warm laugh vibrate into his chest. Maybe it wasn’t so hard to have friends, after all. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Mr. Holmes, I’d be delighted.” </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All finished! It’s been a wild ride, completing my first fic. I hope some of you out there enjoy it :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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